


sundays, one hand held the pulpit

by fab_ia



Category: Zero Hours (Podcast)
Genre: Butchered Christianity, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Sharing a Bed, in which everything is about Touching Hands, latin but it is probably painfully wrong, they are in love i dont care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:28:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23760829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fab_ia/pseuds/fab_ia
Summary: "he plucks a spot of bundled-up thread from the edge of his cuff. liberty freezes in place from the split-second contact.“it was unbecoming,” giles says by way of explanation and liberty silently, inwardly, prays that his heart isn’t hammering."
Relationships: Liberty Howlett/Giles Williams
Kudos: 12





	sundays, one hand held the pulpit

stained-glass shackles are a burden, an unshakeable weight encircling his wrists as he turns a page in the leather-bound book, paper so thin and fragile that his fingers shake as he does. wrists rubbed raw by technicolor locks, sleeves haphazardly pushed up his arms as he rubs the bridge of his nose, eyes stinging.

beside him, giles sighs - not unkindly, not unhappily or sharply, just a soft exhale. liberty blinks, frowning as he plucks a spot of bundled-up thread from the edge of his cuff, fingertips brushing the bare skin there as liberty freezes in place from the split-second contact.

“it was unbecoming,” giles says by way of explanation and liberty silently, inwardly, prays that his heart isn’t hammering quite so loudly and frantically as it feels it is, and his pulse, his blood rushing through his body, draws his gaze down to his wrists, where the weight has lessened.

snapshot - sunday morning, the early-morning sun filtering through to form a splintered rainbow across the stone floor as liberty clutches at his handwritten pages that threaten to flutter to the ground, a swarm of off-white butterflies making the church floor their habitat until, with a jolt, he looks up to meet giles’ eyes, his hands warm where they’ve wrapped around liberty’s own, pressing the scribbles against the cloth covering his chest.

“careful,” he warns, voice light and so clearly  _ amused _ that liberty half-wonders how frantic he’d looked. “almost dropped those, liberty.”

“oh,” liberty breathes. repeats it, a little louder. “oh. i - um, i, thank you.”

giles smiles, eyes crinkling. “my pleasure.”

he’s never been the most careful.

it’s frequently an issue, but rarely ends up in real disaster - a chipped plate, a cracked cup - but the chalice in his hand, now, quakes. the silver shudders and he feels his eyes widen because,  _ oh lord _ , he’s going to spill the wine all over the cloth on the altar, all over the man in front of him, stain ivory with crimson and have to watch it seep into the cloth -

suddenly steady, suddenly stopping. giles cupping the chalice and, in turn, his hand, holding it still enough that only a droplet escapes, running down the polished silver and the joints of their fingers. 

liberty falters. giles’ hands, he notices, are warm, and they don’t shake, aren’t quite so soft as his own. they’re distracting and liberty doesn’t know  _ why _ , because his breath is caught in his throat and his eyes are wide, his own fingers chilled by the wine through the metal.

he swallows.

“the blood of christ,” he says, voice steady as he sinks into the role, the words flowing naturally despite how his focus is on the feeling of skin against his own.

and giles, giles leans up, moves his hands away - liberty pretends he doesn’t instantly miss the contact - and he breathes “ _ amen _ ” as liberty wipes the rim with the snow-white cloth. his lips are stained with red, and it’s all liberty can do to look away.

closeness was never exactly something that liberty concentrated on - physicality and comfort were never major aspects of his life, his childhood relying more on his father’s tried-and-tested methods of stamping out emotional outburst in his sons. the softest touch was still with a closed fist and touch was so frequently a weapon that it was rarely necessary to consider it as something else.

but then his focus shifts and there is something - changed, in him, something vastly different in his everyday life after the move back east to boston. after giving up the role in waltham because, really, he’d always known it wasn’t really for  _ him _ , he was doing it to honour his father. he’s gone home, because that’s what the place feels most like, closer to it than anywhere else ever has. 

friday’s have become this - a late morning, waking up after dawn wrapped in familiarity in his room with the last dregs of the fire warming the room. he stretches, and dresses, and he meets giles at the library to spend the hours there until the sun dips beneath the horizon and, inevitably, ends up seated at giles’ dining table and spending the night in his guest bed.

giles sinks into pages crammed with text as liberty quietly reads one of the texts imported from britain, loses himself in it for a while before a gentle touch against his hand startles him from the silence he’d lost himself in.

“did you know,” giles says, voice soft, “that people believe you can see how happy someone is just by looking at their palms?”

liberty raises an eyebrow. “do they,” he says, humouring him, remembering years ago and the woman in the dead of night, her hair wild from the wind and the coppery smell that permeated the sanctuary of his church. “how do they do that?”

in lieu of verbal response, giles reaches for liberty’s hand, opens it wide and pulls it close. his fingers curl for a moment at the feeling of warm breath against them before he steadies himself again, flattens it out.

it’s - it isn’t unpleasant, to have giles analysing his hand, to trace the lines that cross it, that mar it, lingering for a few seconds in the centre as though imagining angry circles, flaming red against his pale skin.

“so,” liberty says, voice barely steady. “what does it tell you about me?”

“it tells me,” giles says, “that you’re so loved, you couldn’t possibly comprehend how much.”

giles presses liberty’s palm back against his chest, his own hand covering it. neither speak - silence reigns, briefly, and liberty wonders whether giles can feel the throbbing of his heart through his hand, all the muscle and flesh contained within it.

“your heart is so good, so kind,” he says. liberty swallows. “holy. pure.”

“giles, i -  _ amasne me? _ ”

giles laughs, breathy. “ _ in saecula saeculorum _ .”

the words stay in the library, after, as though they’d never been said in the first place. there’s a glass of wine after dinner, scarlet as liberty slowly sips it. he’s taken it to the bedroom, giles following after, his shadow. his clothes sit on the quilt, and the sight of giles there, so close, in a bedroom, of all places - 

liberty’s hands shake and, then, the glass tips, scarlet spreading across the sheets. he stares, dumbly, while giles looks on with wide eyes.

“well,” giles says, slowly. “i don’t think you’ll be able to sleep here tonight.”

“it’s rather late to go home,” liberty breathes, and the hope flutters in his chest, something warm that begins to unfurl and glow from the inside out.

“i think there’s space for two in my bed.”

giles is warm, pressed against his side, turning liberty’s hand over in his own once again as he follows the lines with his finger, down to his wrist, to the crook of his elbow. liberty closes his eyes, breaks his gaze with the ceiling, and giles’ lips against his palm make him feel freer than he ever has.

(and when morning comes and with it, giles’ lips pressing against his own with a soft  _ good morning _ , liberty revels in the warmth he feels, at how light his body feels in the golden dawn. 

_ in saecula saeculorum _ , he murmurs against giles’ cheek, and the lips pressed against his own feel like he’s truly come home for the first time.)

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> title from 'hands' by rennie mcquilkin, found here https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=34833
> 
> on tumblr @sciencematter


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